


Shadowing My Dreams

by padawanhilary, Telesilla



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Community: wtf27, Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-26
Updated: 2006-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padawanhilary/pseuds/padawanhilary, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Telesilla/pseuds/Telesilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando inherits more than just a very nice house from his uncle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Orlando unlocks the front door of the house, which is just large enough to be very nearly a mansion. It's a little amazing that he's received this; his uncle always was a bit nutters--no, when one's wealthy, it's _eccentric._ Still, the place is all dark and Gothic-like, and even less than understanding how he ended up with the place, he doesn't get at _all_ how a man as chipper and bouncy as Uncle Dex ended up with a place that looks like it's been haunted for decades.

He grimaces as he steps in, marking the chill of an unused house and the film of dust on the floor. Hell, it looks as though old Dex didn't even _live_ here. Wandering in past the foyer entrance, he heads for the sitting room, examining the tall, nearly-cliched oils on the wall, all commissioned portraits of aunts, uncles, Mum, Dad...he runs his hand over the mantle, thoughtful, and comes away with a palmful of dust.

"Ugh," he sighs, dusting his hand off on the thigh of his jeans. "I don't think I make enough money to get this place cleaned, Uncle Dex," he says to the tallest painting. "What've you saddled me with?"

The feeling of someone inside the house is more than enough to wake Viggo out of what he thinks of as his dozing state; neither truly asleep nor awake, he often drifts like that for years. Even decades at one point, after Lucy died.

Now, however, there's someone here and he makes his way to the sitting room and hovers in the corner, watching this newcomer. The boy looks a little like Dexter, although when Viggo stares at him closely, he realizes that "boy" is the wrong word. _Well it's correct inasmuch as everyone I see is younger than I am._

It takes Viggo a moment, but then he remembers a time in the past when Dexter brought his sister's family to see the house. There had been a boy then too, a boy who, along with his sister, had run all over the place peering into rooms and sliding on banisters and generally making the old house feel alive again.

Viggo wonders if this is that same boy, grown up now.

Orlando sighs, glancing around; he thought he heard something soft, like a rustling or perhaps a breeze. _Need to get all the window joints checked,_ he reminds himself, _and probably check for rats, as well._ He leaves the sitting room and heads for the stairs, a broad, curving set of them with a mahogany banister. He smiles to himself. God, how Mum used to bark at him for scooting down it. He loved to do it backwards best of all. Somehow, not seeing where he'd end up made it all the more thrilling. He stands at the bottom where Uncle Dex used to, waiting to catch him. They'd tumble over together, shrieking with laughter while Mum clucked and shook her head and threatened.

"But Uncle Dex doesn't mind," Orlando murmurs to himself, his defense whenever Mum piped up, and she would sigh and shake her head and glare at Dex. Orlando grins, shaking his own head--what, he's talking to himself, now.

Intrigued, Viggo follows the boy--_Orlando, that's his name_\--to the stairs. He assumes that Dexter is truly gone now and that he left the house to Orlando. That Orlando talks to himself is a good sign as far as Viggo's concerned; the house is too often quiet and dark, and Viggo finds himself hoping that Orlando will make things interesting again.

Orlando peers up the staircase, then starts to climb it, footsteps echoing oddly against the planks. It was a feeding frenzy, Uncle Dex's will-reading was, and Orlando supposes that was intentional. Dex always knew who'd be after what; the family was never subtle like that. In a fit of perversity, he opted to have it all parceled together, sold wholesale in a warehouse to the highest bidder--so Bedelia couldn't have the crystal without getting the rug, and Martha couldn't have the rug without getting the Victorian chairs, and Alex couldn't have the chairs without getting the dusty old out-of-tune Grand. Brilliant, really, and annoying to the last. It was Dex all over.

"And I get the oils," Orlando sighs, making his way up the stairs. He pulls the skeleton key from his pocket and starts to open the doors in the hallway. It doesn't look right with them all closed.

Although Viggo's not particularly fond of light--direct sunlight makes him feel watery and even more insubstantial than he normally feels--he finds himself approving Orlando's decision to open all the curtains once he's got the rooms opened. He carefully follows Orlando into the master bedroom, hiding in the big armoire when Orlando unlatches and then pushes up the big windows that look over the neglected gardens on the west side of the grounds.

_Of course if he keeps doing this, I might have to retreat to the attic until nightfall, but that's a small price to pay for having someone live here again._

"Christ," Orlando huffs as the sun illuminates the huge amount of dust he's kicked up. He stares woefully down at the gardens and decides he's going to have to sell his place in order to manage the upkeep--or sell this one.

"No," he says. "Not selling this one." He waves a hand in front of his face as he moves out of the master bedroom into one of the guest rooms.

If Viggo were still alive and actually breathing, he'd heave a sigh of relief right now. He's not sure what would happen to him if someone without connections to Robert purchased the house, but then he really hasn't got much of a clue about the rules of being a ghost. The idea of some other family owning the house upsets him regardless, and he resolved years ago to make things quite impossible for the house to be sold if it ever came to that.

As Orlando moves through the rooms, opening draperies and windows, he feels...well, oddly safe here. As though he's not alone. _Now I'm going as nutters as Dex was._ He looks around often, wondering, and finally calls out, grinning, "Uncle Dex? If you're here, start dusting."

Viggo's been following Orlando cautiously--although apparently not cautiously enough, he thinks--and now he almost laughs. As much as he liked it when Dexter lived here, he's glad that he doesn't have to share the house with another ghost. _I wasn't this particular about my living space when I was alive,_ he thinks, remembering two years of sharing a garret in Paris with another artist and his model.

"Well," Orlando sighs at last as the upper rooms air quietly, "I s'pose there's nothing left but to get cleaners in." He doesn't relish the idea of strange people all over the place, but God knows he doesn't have time to do it himself. Still, he can't shake an overprotective sense about the house. Possessiveness. He runs his hand along the banister as he goes back down the stairs, surprised to note that it, unlike anything else in the house, isn't dusty at all.

By the time Orlando is ready to settle in for the night, Viggo feels like he too should be ready for sleep, never mind that, being dead, he never actually sleeps. But Orlando's flurry of activity is tiring: he's dusted a lot, cleaned the kitchen and the master bathroom and brought in his own linens, food and a small television.

Viggo is less than thrilled with the presence of the television, particularly when Orlando brings it into the bedroom; not only does he have a fairly low opinion of what television offers, it also interferes with his resonance and makes him feel nervous and jangly. _What's wrong with a phonograph or even one of those CD things that Dexter had?_

By the time Orlando's retiring to what he's jokingly referring to as the master wing--the bedroom, master bath and study that make up Dexter's old quarters--he's bloody exhausted. The inspection of the place was nothing next to the cleaning of it, and he's been sneezing so much he has to wonder if Dexter secretly kept a cat.

But bedtime can come early if it wants to, and by the time Orlando has vacuumed the mattress and laid out the sheets and blanket, he feels settled enough that he thinks he might rest. He putters through his evening routine: pajamas, cleaning his teeth, using the loo, last-minute washing-up, and then he settles into the big, old bed with its ornate headboard and turns on the television. It's just a small thing, so he placed it on a wheeled tray right next to the bed so that he can watch the news and maybe some footie before he drops off.

While there's something a little adorable about the sight of Orlando in his pajamas, Viggo is still annoyed with the presence of the television. Bracing himself as well as he can, he stands behind the machine and runs his hand through the back of it, shuddering. It's a bother but he figures he can make Orlando get rid of it the same way he forced that one housekeeper Dexter had back in the '60s to get rid of hers.

Orlando is just digging his shoulders into the pillow when the telly goes nuts. "Damn," he sighs, scooting half-out of bed to wiggle the antennae, then smack the side of it. "Knew I should've bought extra rabbit ears." It seems to right itself almost magically, and then the instant Orlando's settled again, blanket up to his chest, it goes haywire once more. "Well fuck," he grumps, climbing out of bed again.

He does this particular dance--fussing with the TV, settling back, getting out of bed again to fuss with the TV--three times, and then on the fourth he curses softly and turns the thing off, shoving the little table away from the bed irritably. "Fine," he says to the house at large. "I'll just install a gigantic satellite receiver, see if I don't." _Jesus, Orlando,_ he thinks, appalled at himself, _as if the house is out to keep you from watching telly._

_Don't make this war,_ Viggo thinks, frowning a little. _I want to like you._

Now that the television is off and out of the way, Viggo can pay more attention to Orlando, and he has to admit that he likes what he sees. It's a pity that Orlando wears pajamas to bed, but still Viggo finds himself wishing he could sketch Orlando. It's the first time in a long time that there's been a lovely young man for Viggo to look at, and he leans against one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed, prepared to watch Orlando for a good long while.

Sighing, Orlando huffs down into the bed, leaning over to turn off the light. Just as he does it he spots something out of the corner of his eye--a smudge of light, a kind of inverse shadow that looks for an instant like a man--and then it's gone when he turns his head to peer into the darkness.

"Grand. Now I'm seeing things." He turns over in a snit, dragging the blanket over his shoulders and burrowing in.

A little alarmed that Orlando had caught even the barest glimpse of him, Viggo backs away, heading for the safety of his own room. Granted it's a bit macabre that he feels most at ease where he'd died, but he does and that fact means that his particular room has always been the last to be assigned to guests on account of it being so cold.

Settling down as much as he can, Viggo lets himself dematerialize even more until he's just a drift of essence. Now that there is actually someone living here--and what a handsome someone he is--Viggo realizes that he'd have to be a little more careful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orlando settles in and Viggo makes contact in his own way.

As the days go by, Orlando settles into the place. He's making motions to put his place on the market, though he's never managed to get around to bringing in a cleaning crew for this new house. It seems a little much, anyway; all it needs is dusting.

_A lot of dusting,_ he amends mentally, but the place has grown on him a bit. He's settled into the kitchen, moving in some groceries and putting out his tea tins near the stove. It's important, suddenly, to make this place home in spite of the odd sense that he really isn't alone here.

For the most part, Viggo's enjoying Orlando's presence in the house. There's the matter of the television, but Viggo's willing to disrupt the signal for as long as it takes Orlando to get tired of the game. Other than that, however, he's finding himself more and more interested in Orlando. It's not just that he's quite attractive, although Viggo is sometimes stunned at how good looking Orlando is, but that Orlando seems to have a gift for enjoying everything that comes along.

Orlando, Viggo has figured out, loves life, and that is a sentiment that Viggo can certainly relate to.

Settling into a routine is easy; Orlando's on a bit of leave from work and the house...well, he feels comfortable here. Embraced, like. So he dusts the rooms and makes his tea and mucks about with the telly and relaxes in the evenings, and over and over the sense of a presence in the house alternately makes itself felt and makes him think he's crazy.

The more time Viggo spends watching Orlando, the more he finds himself wondering about him. For all that Orlando occasionally talks to himself, he seems rather self-contained; he doesn't get much mail or many phone calls and Viggo isn't sure what he does for a living, if anything.

It's this curiosity that has him watching Orlando every night, and one night he decides he wants more. Carefully, he settles around the headboard and stares down at Orlando, hoping he remembers how to enter another person's dreams without them noticing. It's been a long time, some thirty years at least; hopefully he won't frighten Orlando or give him nightmares.

Orlando drifts off, oddly disappointed that he hasn't caught that strange glimpse of light he's seen now and then. He'd be convinced it's Dex, just floating around to try to get him to stay, but...

_But you're mad,_ he thinks as he sinks into sleep, and there's nothing for long moments until the dream comes.

He's in the fog of the funeral, the deep sorrow of the other mourners, and he sighs, wishing as he did that day that the family would only remember what Dex would have wanted them to: the happiness. Still, you can't tell family that.

He turns and spots someone out of the corner of his eye, and in the dream, he doesn't remember that it's no use trying to turn and see properly before the image flits away. He does it, and there is standing a gorgeous man, rangy and unusual, with vivid eyes and clothing that doesn't suit the funeral at all. Not a bit.

Orlando stands, frowning, and turns toward the man, taking a step. It seems perfectly proper in the middle of Dex's funeral to engage in pursuit.

"Did any of these people actually know Dexter?" Viggo asks, knowing, as he does while in someone else's dreams, exactly where he is. "I think he would have found this whole thing tiresome."

"Not many," Orlando admits, shrugging. "I've never seen most of that bunch before, but it's...you know how funerals are. You pick up on the others' sorrow and then, well, you fit right in." He tilts his head, examining the stranger. "I can't recall having seen you before, either."

"I'm an old...acquaintance of Dexter's," Viggo says. "He didn't know me well but I liked him anyway." He tilts his head as if just figuring out who Orlando is. "You're his nephew, right?"

"Yes." Orlando notices the hesitation on "acquaintance" and assumes with the lack of filter that dreams provide that Viggo was Dexter's lover. "You're terribly young," he notes, grinning, trying to calculate when this might've been.

"That's what you think," Viggo says with a laugh. "I'm a lot older than I look, but thank you for the compliment. And no, we weren't lovers. More's the pity really; your uncle was quite a handsome man."

Surprised, Orlando cocks his head. "Well, then." He doesn't know what else to say, having been proved wrong. He doesn't mind looking the man over, though, _that's_ pleasant enough. As to his age, it hardly matters. Hot is hot.

While this is Orlando's dream, Viggo doesn't feel any compunction about trying to move things along a little. Orlando, after all, is controlling the whole thing; if he doesn't like what happens, all he has to do is wake up.

"Would you like to take a walk?" he asks Orlando, suddenly aware that his own notions of courting are over 80 years out of date.

"Sure," Orlando nods; it seems perfectly rational to head right out of his favorite uncle's eulogy to walk with this man, and already he's resisting the urge to do something odd like link his arm through the stranger's.

They stroll off and Viggo notices that the landscape is fluid; as they walk down the lane, sometimes there's a meadow next to them and sometimes a lightly wooded forest. It's nice; Viggo learned early on that he can't leave the house and so other people's dreams have become his only way to spend time outdoors.

Orlando smiles; he likes the scenery, he likes the company. Words don't seem to suit, but that's fine. He has a quick, crazy idea that he could fall in love with this man, just like this, right now, and he stops walking, studying those beautiful eyes.

"What is it?" Viggo asks, reaching up to untangle a bit of Orlando's hair. He's become quite fond of that dark, curly hair; he likes the way it always seems a little unruly, as if it has a mind of its own.

Just the sound of his voice is enough to make Orlando want him. He leans closer without saying a word and kisses the man, just a feather-light brush of lips that seems to disappear as soon as he pulls back, watching the stranger's eyes.

"Thank you," Viggo says, smiling. Although he knows times have changed, he wonders if Orlando would be so bold outside of a dream. "May I return the favor?"

Charmed, Orlando nods. "Absolutely," he grins.

Leaning forward, Viggo gives Orlando a light kiss; although he lingers a little longer than Orlando did, he doesn't try to coax Orlando's lips open. Even in the dream state, his desire seems to be less urgent than it was when he was alive.

It's a sweet, warm kiss, and when Orlando draws back again he smiles more widely. "That was very nice," he murmurs. He reaches up to touch the stranger's arm, then slides his hand down to run his fingertips over the warm hand at the end of the jacket sleeve.

"It was," Viggo agrees, lacing his fingers together with Orlando's. "I'm glad we're here."

"So am I." Orlando has no idea who this man is, but he's...sweet. Sweet and sexy, in a very old-fashioned way. Orlando likes him a great deal.

Leaning in, Viggo gives Orlando another careful kiss; the last thing he wants to do is scare Orlando. He's more than content to take this slowly, and right now, holding hands and kissing like this is the best thing that's happened to Viggo in the past 80 plus years.

* * *

Orlando wakes with an odd regret -- that dream he had was so _real_, though naturally, in the light of day, there's no way he'd walk away from Maddie eulogizing Uncle Dex to hit on some strange man. He has no idea where he's seen that man before, either, though he looks vaguely familiar. Isn't that the way dreams work? You never invent people. They've got to come from somewhere.

He rolls out of bed with a grunt and pads down to the kitchen for his tea, then stands there with one hand braced on the counter, spooning leaves into the pot sleepily.

"It was a nice dream, at any rate," he mumbles, and shakes his head. "I swear," he says toward the ceiling, "Dex, this house _makes_ me talk to myself."

_It was a nice dream,_ Viggo thinks from his stop in the doorway to the kitchen. He's not all that fond of the kitchen, there are too many appliances which, like all machines, interfere with his resonance. But he's more than willing to brave the dreaded microwave in order to learn what Orlando thinks of the dream.

Sighing, Orlando carries his little carafe of water to the microwave and sets it. He folds his arms and leans his ass on the counter, rubbing at his eyes. "He was so gorgeous," he mutters. "And sweet. Why can't I meet someone like that in real life? Why do I always end up with the arses?"

_Why don't you use the kettle?_ Viggo thinks, wincing as Orlando starts up the microwave. He wishes he could reassure Orlando about the dream, but he has a feeling that, if he shows himself now, Orlando will leave the house, never to return.

Orlando zones out as he stares at the microwave, watching it do its slow countdown to hot water. When it beeps at him, he takes his hot pad and pours over the leaves. "And such a good kisser."

_Thank you,_ Viggo thinks with an ironic little smile. _I can do better, I promise you._ He looks at Orlando for a long moment and then, worried that he'll be tempted to do something to catch Orlando's attention, he retires to his own room.

Orlando glances toward the kitchen doorway for no reason he can figure, then mentally rolls his eyes at himself. _Maybe the place is haunted,_ he snorts inwardly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orlando continues to have interesting dreams and Viggo continues to interfere with household appliances.

Orlando climbs into the bed, tired in spite of the fact that he can't account for what he's done to make himself so. He's become intimate with the house by now, fond of it, dusting every corner and discovering odd items in closets, unwanted by the rest of the family. He is outraged at the idea that they've picked the house over, but realistically that's probably what happened. "No one wanted the pictures," he groused when he found the albums, "but naturally, the gold candelabras are gone."

He pulls the blanket up to his stomach and reaches for his book. He doesn't bother with the telly; clearly the wiring of the house or the distance from town prevents decent, reliable reception, and there's no point in it anymore.

But he's not interested in his book. He's still stuck on that dream, how warm and good it felt, and so detailed. He stares at the footboard for a little while, trying to conjure that man in his mind again, though now it's hard to picture his face. Orlando remembers the kisses, though -- as simple as they were, as chaste, they felt fantastic.

"It was a dream," he insists to himself, and hunkers down in bed. The book ends up shoved under the pillow on the other side, and he turns out the light, bent on sleeping off his tiredness.

Watching Orlando settle into bed, Viggo smiles, glad Orlando's given up on the television. Once more he waits until Orlando's drifting off before he takes his place, perching on the headboard. As if to remind Viggo why he shouldn't touch Orlando outside of the dreams, Orlando shivers a little in his sleep and pulls his blankets up around his chin.

It doesn't take long; Orlando sinks into the dream effortlessly, sliding back to that place in the trees/field/hills, the changing landscape where the stranger first kissed him. He's looking around, wondering where he is and then he sees the man coming down the road.

"Hello," he greets, giving a little wave and a smile.

"Orlando," Viggo says, reaching for Orlando's hand. He raises it to his lips with a courtesy that had been considered old-fashioned even when he'd been alive. "I'm glad you wanted to see me."

Beaming, Orlando watches the man kiss his hand and then gives a low nod. "Of course I did," he says. "I enjoyed our..." It wasn't a date, but it felt like one, didn't it? "Our time together."

"So did I," Viggo says with a smile. "Would you like to walk again, or is there someplace else you would like to go?" He's not sure if this dream version of Orlando is aware of how much control he had over his own dreams.

Orlando thinks, for some reason, of a gazebo, and he smiles. "I have a place in mind," he says, and leads the man directly off of the road to a spot that perfectly fits what Orlando had in mind: fresh white, surrounded by grass with a nice breeze and a lot of sunshine flowing in.

"This is nice," Viggo says, looking around. The view from the gazebo is lovely, but Viggo doesn't really pay much attention to it, choosing to focus on Orlando.

It feels right for Orlando to twine his fingers through this stranger's, and he shifts a little closer as he does it. "You're very comfortable to be with," he murmurs, watching those blue eyes. "I like you."

"Thank you," Viggo says, moving closer to Orlando. "I want you to like me. It's important to me," he adds.

"Why?" Orlando asks, surprised. "You're very enjoyable to be with. Why would you concern yourself?"

"Doesn't everyone want to be liked?" Viggo asks, not ready to explain that he lives with Orlando and so hopes Orlando enjoys his company. "May I kiss you again?"

"Oh, yes," Orlando smiles, leaning close. "Please, kiss me."

Still careful not to push, Viggo kisses Orlando, enjoying the way Orlando's lips feel against his. It's good and although he wants more, he doesn't want to offend Orlando.

Thrilled, Orlando presses closer. He wants more too, and cups his hand at the back of Viggo's neck to prove it.

Encouraged, Viggo slides his hands down to grip Orlando's waist lightly and opens his mouth, letting his tongue move lightly over Orlando's lips. He'd been much more eager when he was alive, but here, in the timeless space of a dream, he's willing to take this as slowly as Orlando wants.

Moaning softly in surprise, Orlando does more than allow the kiss -- he opens to it, pleased and thrilled, relaxed and easy all at once.

That little moan almost undoes Viggo; he responds to it by moving closer to Orlando. While he's shared dreams with people before, this degree of intimacy in dreams is new and it's almost overwhelming.

God, it's so good that Orlando has to cup his hand at the back of the stranger's neck, drawing him closer as they kiss. It's right. It's so right. Orlando moans again, snugging himself closer.

After a long time spent kissing Orlando's lovely mouth, Viggo kisses his way down to Orlando's neck, nibbling at it very lightly.

"Oh," Orlando sighs, leaning closer, surprised. He arches a bit as the man's teeth find a spot on his throat and moans again. "So nice."

Pleased, Viggo maps Orlando's neck with his lips and teeth, wanting to find each spot that makes Orlando squirm. He finds quite a few and allows his hands to get more bold as well, stroking Orlando's back and even sliding one palm down across Orlando's ass.

Hissing, moaning, Orlando will realize when he wakes that he acted a lot like a pleased cat in his dream. He arches toward the man and kisses harder when their mouths meet.

Although it's obvious that Orlando is enjoying everything that Viggo does, Viggo sees no reason to push things further. He's hard and wants Orlando almost desperately, but the sensation is so novel to him that it's almost worth prolonging his need. And so he's content, in a strangely eager way, to continue kissing and touching Orlando for as long as Orlando encourages him.

After what seems like a long while, Orlando begins to realize that they're just not going to go any further. In his waking hours, he'd wonder why it is this man isn't already trying to shag him silly, but here, now, it's beautiful just like this.

He finally pulls back, though, aware of the ache between his legs and his own shaky breathing. "I suppose we'd better stop," he smiles, brushing his fingertips over the stranger's face, "or I might not be able to."

"It's your decision," Viggo says, cupping Orlando's face in his hand. "In this place, it will always be your decision."

That doesn't make sense to Orlando, but he smiles. "I think I'd like to wait."

~ ~ ~

Orlando wakes more quickly than usual, his prevailing emotion being disappointed surprise. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling in the early morning gloom.

"What the bloody hell was _that_ about?" he wonders, recalling the dream and rolling over again, reaching for his notepad. He's started writing his dreams down as best he can; though he's no scribe, he wants to remember these vivid, incredible imaginings of a stranger wanting him badly enough to draw him right out of the funeral.

_And I said I'd like to wait. What was I _smoking_ last night?_

Not sure what Orlando's talking about, Viggo watches as he writes in his notebook. _I hope I didn't upset him in some way,_ he thinks, moving a little closer to the bed and Orlando.

Absently, Orlando draws the blanket up closer, feeling vaguely chilled as he writes. He squirms as he recalls the hunger of those kisses, the _heat_ of them, and yet they also had an old-fashioned tenderness to them. "Why the hell would I rather wait?" he asks the empty room when he reaches a stopping place.

_I certainly can't answer that,_ Viggo thinks. He's aware that times have changed a good deal since his own era, but he doesn't know how much they've changed. _Should I have been more forceful?_ he wonders, remembering what it was like when he finally reached an age where it was expected that he would be the active lover of younger, more passive men.

Sighing, Orlando sets his notebook aside and slides down under the covers further to stare at the ceiling some more. Almost idly, he pushes his hand under the covers and into his pajama bottoms. He shivers once as his hand closes on his cock, still erect from the dream, and wonders briefly if he should have the furnace serviced.

As tempted as Viggo is to watch Orlando, he can tell from Orlando's shivers that he's already too close to the bed. Plus, it would be rude to watch an intimate, private moment like this, and so he leaves the room, heading reluctantly for the kitchen where he intends to do something about the microwave.

Orlando makes quick work of it; just the memory of those fluid, _real_ dream-kisses are enough, and by the time he replays the dream to the point that this strange man draws his mouth over Orlando's throat, that's it. He comes with a soft moan, heating up the inside of his pajamas briefly before he has to get up and get the congealing come off of himself and address his need for tea.

He wipes off quickly and discards his damp pajamas, tossing the top as well and opting for a pair of drawstring flannel trousers instead. He's alone in the house and there's no reason he shouldn't go shirtless. That decided, he washes up and cleans his teeth and pads down to the kitchen to brew himself a pot.

Having been good and allowed Orlando his privacy in the shower and while dressing, Viggo's never seen Orlando without some kind of shirt on and he now he stares, taking in the fine, lean lines of Orlando's torso. The tattoo comes as a total surprise; it's unlike anything Viggo's ever seen and it takes real willpower to keep himself from moving to look at it closely.

Orlando regrets his lack of shirt now that he's in the lower story. "Damn, I do have to have that furnace done," he grouses, going through his tea preparations and then taking his little carafe to the microwave -- and stopping abruptly as he realizes the clock isn't shining at him.

"Oh _fucking_ hell," he growls. "Whole place is buggy." He falters, then goes to the cabinet for a little pot to pour the water into it for the stove.

_Oh good. Now you need to buy yourself a kettle and I won't even mind too much if it's an electric one._

Viggo wants to laugh at the way he's mentally laying down the law. _Sorry,_ he thinks, looking at Orlando. The urge to actually talk to the young man returns and for a moment, Viggo almost gives in.

There's something in the corner of Orlando's eye, almost the kind of pale blur that heralds a car pulling into the drive on a dark night, headlamps flashing. It's faint, though, and by the time Orlando turns his head, it's gone.

Rubbing his eyes, he sighs at himself. "Boil faster, damn you," he orders the pot, "I need my tea."

A little startled by his near lapse, Viggo retreats. He hasn't been this unsure of anything since shortly after he died, and he doesn't like the feeling. _What am I doing with this boy? Should I just force him out and go back to living in an empty house?_

But no, the thought of doing that is almost unbearable and Viggo wonders where he ever got the idea that all of his strong emotions died along with his body.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orlando finally asks Viggo for his name and, in a roundabout way, learns just who the mysterious man in his dreams is.

Orlando spends several minutes each day from there on out, pre-tea, post-waking, diligently logging his dreams. They seem to be...consecutive and ongoing, really, and though Orlando is no more a dream interpreter than he is a writer, he thinks that might be odd.

_I have, however, just come into a new home, put my old one on the market and temporarily adopted a life I've never lived before. That just might lend itself to odd dreaming._

He's noticed that his dreams have become more heated as the nights go by, though. His fascination with the stranger has driven him to bed earlier and earlier, and he no longer makes any pretense at reading, let alone trying to make the telly work. He goes straight to bed, lights out and eyes shut.

So here he is again, not on the road and not in the gazebo but on a little blanket -- no, a checked tablecloth, a throwback to bygone picnics. He and his stranger are in a field on a gentle hill, watching the clouds go by and picking at food that interests neither of them as much as the other does.

"You're quiet," Viggo says after a moment spent watching Orlando nibble on cucumber sandwich. "Is everything all right?" As the nights have gone on, Viggo's become more and more entranced by Orlando until now all he does is wait for the time when Orlando lies down to sleep. It's not just the physical side of it--as stunning and overwhelming as it is--but he's genuinely enjoying Orlando's company as well.

"Everything's fine," Orlando smiles, though even to him it feels a bit false so he lets it falls away. "We feel so different. We..." For a moment, he looks at that handsome, unusual face, those blue eyes, and then he takes the man's hand. "Who are you?"

This the moment Viggo has been dreading when he's alone, but now that it's here, he's caught with nothing to say. "I can't tell you," he finally says. "Not here and now." He swallows hard. "But you're right to ask; you should know."

Maybe it's Orlando's need to be with this man -- and it feels right to admit to it as a need, not a desire or an urge -- that keeps him here in spite of a clear answer. There's no question, though: he wants to stay.

"But we're different," he says, almost a question, watching the man's eyes. "You can tell me that much."

"Ah, but you already know that," Viggo can't resist saying. "So I don't have to tell you." He reaches for Orlando's hand. "I do care about you, far more deeply than ever expected to."

Orlando doesn't know what to do with that, even here. He wants to return it, but suddenly he is utterly and deeply confused. "You don't have to tell me," he says, though even that disappoints him somewhat.

Instead of more words, more discussion, he turns to his stranger and kisses him. This much he knows. This much he can handle.

This isn't the first time Orlando's taken the lead, but it still thrills Viggo, and he moans into Orlando's mouth. For all his youth, Orlando is obviously no novice at love and Viggo's glad to have met someone he can approach as an equal. _This is more than mere lust of the body,_ he thinks, reaching up and tangling his fingers in Orlando's hair.

Just the way this stranger touches Orlando turns him on madly, and the kisses are downright addictive. He presses closer, this time sliding his hands around to the man's back and pulling him tight, fingers dragging a little against the back of his shirt.

"Yes," Viggo mumbles against Orlando's mouth, wanting to encourage him as much as possible. He keeps his own hands--currently resting on Orlando's slim hips--gentle, resisting the urge to grip Orlando tightly.

It feels so good, so intense, that even this simple snogging is enough to make Orlando ache fiercely. He thinks, somehow, that he's already infatuated, though that seems faintly impossible. He squirms, liking the way his new lover's hands feel on him as they kiss.

Pulling back a little, Viggo reaches up to slide Orlando's jacket off, a little amused that Orlando dresses more formally in dreams than he does in his waking life. _Maybe because this is what he was wearing when we met?_ The subconscious is a strange place and Viggo decides to think about that a little later, when he's not trying to get at Orlando's skin.

Somehow, that prompts Orlando to move, really _act_ on this, and he tugs at the man's shirt, opening the buttons as quickly as he can manage without just tearing the shirt open. It's a nice shirt; Orlando hasn't seen one quite like it before, but once he gets skin and hair and nipples exposed, he stops thinking about the shirt and latches onto one of those nipples, sucking avidly as he toys with the other one, fingertips pinching and twisting.

"Oh God," Viggo moans, his head tilting back. He braces himself on one hand, still trying to caress Orlando through his shirt, although he's enjoying Orlando's touch enough that his efforts are minimal at best. "So good," he adds, bending a little to nuzzle at Orlando's curly hair.

"Yes," Orlando sighs, and he presses his tongue up, catching that nipple between his upper teeth and his tongue. "Mmm." He wraps an arm around Viggo's waist, holding him close by the small of the back.

It's so novel to be touched like this after all this time, and Viggo wants to just relax and let Orlando do what he will. But that's hardly the gentlemanly thing to so, and so Viggo tugs at Orlando's shirt, trying to pull it free of his trousers without disturbing Orlando too much.

He manages after a moment and then contorts a little to run his hand up along Orlando's chest, finally reaching a nipple. Teasing at it lightly, Viggo murmured into Orlando's hair. "You have beautiful skin."

Orlando moans softly, arching a little and dragging his teeth more firmly across that nipple in his mouth. He raises his head after a moment and takes the stranger's mouth hard in a long, deep, hungry kiss, biting and sucking.

Viggo's fingers go tight on Orlando's nipple for a moment before he catches himself. He wants Orlando now, wants him fiercely, and it's getting more and more difficult to remember that he doesn't want to take Orlando while Orlando doesn't know who Viggo is.

There's so much sheer, hot desire here that Orlando just lets himself get lost in the kiss for a moment before he's scrabbling for a way into the stranger's trousers. He wants this so badly, even without a name to go alongside the incredible kisses.

"No," Viggo says, although really, it's the last thing he wants to say. "Not until...we can't. Not now." He looks down. "I'm sorry." He knows he should tell Orlando who he is, but here, in this dreamscape, Orlando will only think it's part of the dream. _And I can't talk to him out in the real world until he calls me._ Viggo sighs. "I don't...I _can't_ take you lightly as if you were just an amusing diversion."

Orlando knows he can't press the issue. He sighs, drawing back just a little, though he does lean in once more for another kiss. "Why not now?" he asks softly, stroking a hand down his stranger's face.

"Because you won't believe me here," Viggo explains. "But I can tell you where to start and maybe you'll remember."

"Tell me, then. Please." Orlando watches the man's eyes, wishing he could find a way to make this less complicated than it seems to be.

"The attic," Viggo says, his heart pounding, as he pulls back and stares into Orlando's dark eyes. "You need to look in the attic." He reaches out and brushes a hand across Orlando's face. "Try to remember," he murmurs before letting himself fade back into the real world. _A misnomer if ever there was one,_ he thinks, looking down at the bed where Orlando lies sleeping. _Seeing as how things are far more real in his dreams than they are here._

In his sleep, Orlando frowns, letting out a dissatisfied grunt. In the dream, he stares around, blinking, and then he stands. His shirt is done up again without his permission and he's alone again.

 

_Why would I not remember to look in the attic?_ he wonders. _And what's in there?_

~ ~ ~ ~

When Orlando wakes, it's with an odd, nagging sense that the dream he just had is important. _Did he tell me to go to the attic?_

He hauls himself out of bed and heads upstairs, pausing only for his morning piss and a quick rinse. He doesn't bother to brush his teeth or even throw on a robe; it should be warm enough up there.

It makes him wonder whether he's losing his damned mind -- though he doesn't stop climbing the steps. He's realized in the weeks since he came that the dreams are recurring quite regularly, almost every night, and always about the same man in the same suit on the same idyllic day. _Just like the day of Dex's funeral._

He opens the creaky, almost cliché attic door, and where he expected heat and dust he finds himself surprised: it's actually quite cool up here, as well as surprisingly clean. Immediately he's looking for..._What the hell am I looking for, anyway?_

Something tells him this mystery will end up being solved out of a box, so he starts with those. There are several of them and the dream's already fading, that hot combination of lust and affection disappearing slowly. He tries to hurry, but as on other days he's already resisting the urge to just go back to bed.

_I might find him again,_ he thinks, and he very nearly abandons his search. In the end, though -- an hour later, that is -- he's giving up the boxes to move on to the old rolltop desk. _There must be a reason he told me to come up here._

Chafing at his inability to speak with Orlando, Viggo's been hovering in a corner waiting to see if Orlando will keep searching long enough to find in information he needs. He supposes he should feel fear or shame at the idea that soon Orlando will know who--and what--he's dealing with, but frankly, Viggo's tired of petting sessions in dreams.

Careful not to come into contact with Orlando, Viggo drifts over to watch as Orlando searches the desk. The last person to know Viggo's secret, to actually speak to him, was Dexter's sister Lucy, but she died as a young woman and Viggo's neither spoken to or been seen by anyone since then. He's eager, unable to stay in one place for any length of time as Orlando finally finds the bundle of newspapers and the album of clippings and photographs.

The newspapers are all meticulously stacked and rolled, edges perfectly aligned. They're yellowed in spite of that, and quite brittle. For that reason, Orlando is glad that they weren't folded: the papers would simply crack and disintegrate down the seams.

Something tells him that this is the answer, though, so he unrolls the papers carefully on the floor, scanning through them quickly.

And then, there it is: halfway down the front page is the headline "AMERICAN ARTIST SLAIN IN INDUSTRIALIST'S HOME" and a surprisingly clear photograph of the man from Orlando's dreams: Viggo Mortensen.

Pulling in a shocked breath, Orlando reads the article meticulously, then reads it again. Most of the phrasing is discreet, but the gist is clear: the questionable relationship involving the revered industrialist's son, the enraged father...the pieces snap together with perfect clarity.

_Except for the part where the man I've been snogging in my dreams is _dead_. How _that's_ happening has me completely confused._

Hands shaking, Orlando grabs up the album. "I know you're in here, too," he mutters, knowing now that the reason he's done so much talking to himself is because yes, someone _is_ listening. Sure enough, there are several pages dedicated to carefully-placed photographs of the American artist.

Orlando stares at the images until he realizes he's not quite seeing anything anymore. He shuts the album, rolls up the papers (and he tries for a moment to align them just the way they were, but fails) and sits a moment longer, staring at the hardwood floor.

"Why the fuck couldn't you just tell me?" he asks the room, hurting in a way he couldn't possibly explain. _I've fallen for someone I can never touch,_ he thinks miserably, but _that_ much he won't say aloud. He's given enough, he thinks.

_Say my name,_ Viggo thinks, wishing Orlando could hear him. He'd learned that rule early on, when a housemaid had been gossiping to the chauffeur and Viggo had had to duck very quickly out of sight because he'd felt himself coalescing in some strange way. He hadn't been fast enough and both servants had given notice that very day, leading to the rumors that the house was haunted.

Orlando has an odd feeling then, an idea that he could....

"But that's ridiculous," he says aloud. "Like Bloody Mary legends. As if saying 'Viggo Mortensen' will bring him about."

Unlike the first time, Viggo knows what to expect and he holds himself still as he feels the strange resonances that make up what little form he has, swirl thickly around him. "I'm sorry," is the first thing he says.

Orlando feels himself go chilly and gray even as his heart seems to explode into a racing beat. He scrambles backward, hands and ass scooting on the attic floor as he tries to cringe away from the -- from the -- _Jesus Christ Almighty, it's true._

Viggo remains in place, looking down at himself curiously. He can't be seen in mirrors and even though Lucy once tried to photograph him, there was nothing but a blur, as if the chemicals had remained on the paper for too long. He knows that, according to her at least, he looks like "fog in the lamplight on a dark night when there's a little breeze off the river and you think you see someone only to realize you're looking at no one."

"I'm sorry," he says again, missing Lucy rather profoundly right now. "I can go back to my room and be there as long as you want me to stay away."

"How?" Orlando asks rather stupidly. "Why me?" There's so much more behind the question: _Why choose me to seduce when surely you could find someone more suited?_

And then he has to correct: _More dead. Less alive. More on your plane of existence._ Orlando realizes distantly that he's in a kind of shock.

"Because you're beautiful and lonely and something in you draws me," Viggo answers honestly. "Because I...I don't really know. There's just something about you."

That takes the wind out of Orlando's sails. "I'm not lonely," he says, though the argument sounds feeble to his own ears. "I like being here." But then he realizes that he likes being here because Viggo -- and God, doesn't it feel good to have a name to go with that face, that _feeling_? -- has made him feel welcome.

Orlando looks up at Viggo, at the mist that somehow makes him up. "I don't know what to say," he murmurs.

"Whatever you like," Viggo says quietly. "Had I ever felt you didn't want the dreams to take the form they did, I would have gone." He looks at Orlando, missing the ability to breathe; heaving a big sigh would feel very good right now. "You do understand why I pulled away last night?"

Orlando does, completely, though it's not much good. "I only wish you'd done it sooner," he says without thinking, and he looks up at Viggo's grayish form. "I think I'm in love with you, and we can't...I thought..."

_You thought what?_ he wonders. _That a dream lover was somehow more real than this?_ "We can't be together," he finally says, staring at the floor.

"Why not?" Viggo asks, staring at Orlando while the words "I think I'm in love with you" seem to echo around the attic.

"Well how the fuck can we?" Orlando spits, abruptly and unreasonably angry. He pushes up and stands. "Are you able to be here? Now?" Lunging forward, he proves his own point by swiping his hand through the immaterial mist that is Viggo.

That's always a startling feeling and for a moment Viggo loses cohesiveness. "No," he admits, "but we've been together every night."

Surprised, Orlando stares. "So that's it?" he asks. "Dreams? Is that..._all_?" Once the words are out he wishes he could recall them: they hurt. He knows it.

"Orlando, I can give you my undivided attention. I can talk with you during the day, or sleep when you're away, and we can have our nights together in your dreams." Viggo stretches out one misty hand. "I'll love you as much...more than I've loved anyone before. Is it really so different than what you would have with a live lover?" Even as he asks, he knows it is, and he tries not to think of a day when he has to watch Orlando leave the house to be with someone he can touch while he's awake.

"I'm sorry," Orlando says immediately. He stands, shaking his head and then looking up at Viggo. _Viggo._ The name just sounds good, even inside Orlando's head. He holds his hand out hesitantly. "I'm sorry," he says with a bit more weight. He doesn't know if he can do this but he damn sure wants to try.

"Lucy used to say touching me felt like dipping her hand into the North Sea in winter," Viggo said, holding out his hand.

"I don't care." Orlando pushes his hand out insistently and feels the frigid damp envelope it. He barely restrains a curse. "Viggo," he breathes, shivering, "there's got to be a way to get past this."

"There isn't, I don't think." Viggo said. "I don't know. It's rather isolated out here; I've never met another...anyone else like me."

Orlando sighs, dropping his hand. He wants there to be some romantic resolution, but this is the real world. There isn't one. "It's just the dreams, then?"

"Just the dreams?" Viggo says, looking at Orlando. "The last time I spent any time in dreams was before your Aunt Lucy was married. We used to picnic together and she'd tell me all her secrets." He smiles at Orlando. "It was all very innocent--I've never been one for women--but I could feel things...water and grass and her hand and the picnic basket." he sighs. "And that was what, 40, 50 years ago?

"They may be 'just' dreams to you Orlando, but the last two weeks have meant more to me than anything that happened after my death."

Orlando has no response for that. He feels alone now, more so than he did before, as though he'd cultivated something that died before it could bear fruit.

"I'm sorry," he sighs, shaking his head and stepping back. "I need..." _More than that._ He raises his hands, unable to look at Viggo. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Viggo says. "I'd give you more if I could." As he lets himself dissipate, he bows a little. "Thank you for allowing me to touch you."

Orlando reaches out, but it's too late. He realizes abruptly, also too late, that it's colder with Viggo gone. Sighing, chest aching, he stares at the papers he's unearthed for a moment, then leaves them untouched to head back down to the bedroom. He's going to go back to sleep, but now it's just to forget himself for a little while.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viggo's no longer present and Orlando no longer feels welcome in the house.

Orlando spends an unhappy week in the house after that; by the time he's ready to pack his bags he's discovered that his dreams have become hollow and his waking hours are left strangely undisturbed.

Having put two and two together by now, slow though he feels these days, he's even attempted to watch telly and run the microwave: both work all of a sudden: reception fine, power restored.

That, somehow, makes Orlando feel just a bit worse.

His dreams are useless anymore; they leave him floundering, alone...he feels as though he's searching in them, always looking for someone who isn't there. _Viggo._

By the end of the week -- six days, rather -- he's searched his dreams, stared dazedly at the telly until it sickened him, he's given up altogether on the microwave and he's finally opened his suitcase to begin putting his clothes in. The house just isn't..._welcoming_ anymore.

"Viggo," he sighs, staring at his carefully-rolled socks in a corner of the case, "I'm sorry." He buries his face in his hands. "I'm sorry." He knows now that he's made an incredible mistake. He's pushed away something real -- far more real than any hot-blooded shag after a night in a bar, more real even than the relationships he's involved himself in.

Suddenly he's tired. He wants to curl up in bed, suitcase and all. "Will you be there?" he asks quietly as he settles against the pillow. "Viggo?" He stares at the ceiling, then looks into the corners of the room, hoping.

This is the first time Orlando's said his name since that day in the attic and Viggo can feel it all the way across the house. He hovers outside of Orlando's bedroom for a moment -- even though he knows it's impossible, he can't help wondering if he only imagined his name being called.

But then Orlando says it again and Viggo takes it for an invitation. He's been hiding in his room, doing his best to stay out of Orlando's way, and he's been far more lonely than he can ever remember being, either dead or alive. As much as he thinks he should know better, he finds himself hoping desperately that Orlando will want...something, even if it's something a simple as a strained friendship.

As he materializes in the bedroom, he notices the suitcase and, if he still had a working heart, it would be pounding hard. "I'm sorry," he says, even before he's as solid as he can get. "I didn't mean to drive you out. I...I'm sorry."

"Viggo," Orlando sighs, and he reaches out before remembering that he can't pull Viggo into bed with him. "I...God, I missed you."

Viggo moves closer, but not so close that he'll make Orlando cold. "I missed you too," he says, a little confused between Orlando's words and the presence of the suitcase on the bed. "I'll miss you when you leave." _Because I know you won't be back._

Orlando sits up. "I don't want to leave," he says in spite of the obvious contradiction, and now he does reach for Viggo's hand, wanting him more than he dislikes the intense cold. "I was..." He flushes. "Honestly, I was hoping you would come and join me?" Nodding toward the pillows, he then ducks his head down.

Letting his hand occupy the same space as Orlando's feels good, if a little strange. "I would like that," Viggo say. "I...it's easier for you to know that I mean what I say if you can see my face."

Orlando smiles, nodding. "I hope I can sleep now," he murmurs, and he looks at Viggo seriously. "I want to be here, I just...please." He drops his head and sighs, feeling so confused he can't put voice to it. "Please show me." There's more than that; _show me how much we can give each other, how much we can do together,_ but Orlando suspects that Viggo knows the questions, if not the answers.

"Go to sleep," Viggo says softly, knowing from experience that if he stands here and softly urges Orlando to sleep, it will happen. _That much I can do,_ he thinks. _And more, once you dream._

"Thank you." Orlando sighs as he lays his head down; he can already feel himself sliding into sleep, and the sense of gray cold next to him is comforting as he goes.

In the cool shade of the gazebo, he turns away from the sharp, sparkling glare of the lake and -- there. Viggo is just inside the arched entrance.

"I'm sorry," Orlando sighs yet again, going to him. He understands that this is a dream, now -- _lucid dreaming_, he remembers the term being -- but he knows that doesn't matter. Here, Viggo is solid and real and _warm_. That's more important than anything else right now. Orlando wraps his arms around Viggo's waist, slides his hands up along Viggo's back, feeling muscle and heat under his touch to go with the slide of fine cloth.

Here, in this place, Viggo can breathe again, and he does, letting out a long sigh. "I'm sorry...so sorry. If there had been any other way of letting you know who I was--what I wa--I'd have done it sooner."

"Don't." Orlando cups his hands around Viggo's face, shaking his head and leaning in for a slow kiss, possibly the most gorgeous thing Orlando's ever felt in his life. He hums into it and takes a long moment to pull back. "I missed you. I don't...I wasn't sure you'd come, and if you hadn't, I'd have gone -- but you did, and now...what's going to happen now?" Orlando shakes his head, knowing he's just laid a lot at Viggo's feet.

"What do you want to happen?" Viggo asks, sliding a hand up the back of Orlando's shirt before running his hand through Orlando's hair. He plays with it a bit, appreciating the feel of his fingers moving through those thick curls. "God, you _feel_ so good...."

"I just want to...I don't know. I want to make up for turning away from you. I want to be with you." Orlando arches against Viggo's body, sighing, and presses close again. "Any way I can."

"You don't need to make up for anything," Viggo says, kissing Orlando thoroughly. "You found out that a man whose been dead for roughly 80 years is in love with you. Can't have been an easy thing to accept."

"But I could've been..." Orlando has to laugh at this, and in this place it's easier. "I could've been more sensitive to your condition." He strokes his fingers through Viggo's hair. "I feel as though I should have known."

Orlando's phrasing makes Viggo laugh. "I love the way you put it," he says. "As if I have some unfortunate disease." He kisses Orlando again, liking that he has to lean up a little to do so.

"All I can offer you is this," he says more seriously. "Dreams and my presence in the house if you want it."

"Please," Orlando nods, watching Viggo's eyes, "I want it. I want you there." He wonders if he should say this much, but then just plunges on: "I _need_ you there, Viggo. Just a week without you has been hell."

"For me too," Viggo says. "Even when I was trying to just sleep--drift the way I do when I'm not totally present--I felt it." He takes Orlando's hand and grips it tightly. "And this...I never thought I'd have this again."

"God." Orlando looks down at their hands and threads his fingers through Viggo's tightly. "I couldn't give this up. Not now. I'm sorry I even considered it." He pulls Viggo closer with a hand at his nape and kisses him again. "I don't know how it happened, but I'm in love with you."

"It happened the way it did with me," Viggo says. "It was just...there. Please...I would like to make love to you." It's more blunt than he was before, but he knows that times have changed and he knows that Orlando wants this.

"Yes." Orlando pulls Viggo into the gazebo, drawing him down to a bench to kiss him again. He wishes at once they could be somewhere comfortable -- a bed, or even a grassy hill -- and then realizes that here, they can be.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks, stroking a hand down Viggo's hair.

"Wherever you're comfortable," Viggo says, and then pauses. "Well, anywhere except my room; it has a feeling to it that I don't want to have associated with you."

"Can we go to the house?" Orlando asks, surprised. Well, of course they can; it's _their_ house. He pulls Viggo close, too thrilled to _feel_ him to let him get too far away, and then he _pushes._ The gazebo fades, grows fuzzy and dark, and then they're in Orlando's bedroom, television askew on its rolling tray, bed rumpled from restlessness. There is no suitcase on the bed; of course in this world, Orlando would never consider leaving.

"Finally," Orlando breathes, pushing Viggo toward the bed and then onto it, tugging at his clothing and kissing him hotly, relishing the feel of muscle and skin and actual _heat_ under his hands.

That heat, both from his own body and from Orlando's, startles Viggo, and he basks in it, pulling impatiently at Orlando's clothes so he can feel more of that hot skin against him. "God," he groans. "It's so...it's all so much."

"Yes." Orlando finishes his fumbling with Viggo's clothing, just a bit different from his own, and then laughs, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he smiles, "I'm assuming so much." He stretches out atop Viggo to kiss him again. "Will you let me..." Clearing his throat, he finishes, "...be in you?" With anyone else, he'd just say _fuck_, but that doesn't seem right.

For a moment, Viggo is taken aback. Even though he's considered the possibility and isn't at all adverse to it, that Orlando would suggest this first time is both surprising and one more reminder that the world has changed while he's been dead. The way his body responds, however, is more than enough to convince him to agree, and he presses up to Orlando, his cock hard against Orlando's lean thigh and murmurs, "Yes, please."

_God, thank you._ As far apart as their worlds are, Orlando can't help but be grateful about the fact of sex being universal. He trails his mouth down to Viggo's throat, licking and biting gently, tasting warm skin and the sharp remnant of some soap or cologne that might have come from his imagination. It hardly matters; it's _Viggo._ He slides a hand down to Viggo's chest, turning and toying with a nipple, forcing himself to go more slowly than he normally would.

Feeling all this again, a mouth on his skin, fingers on his nipple, is driving Viggo mad, and he moans under Orlando's touch. "It's all so...good...overwhelming."

"Yes," Orlando agrees again, looking into Viggo's eyes before sliding down to replace his fingertips with his mouth. "Wanted this," he whispers, and can't imagine what ever made him think that this, here, wouldn't be enough for him.

"God yes," Viggo says, arching up and tangling his fingers in Orlando's hair. "I knew I wanted you, but not how much."

Orlando groans softly, mouthing at Viggo's nipple, catching it between his teeth and tongue and dragging off of it again. "You taste good," he sighs, and he kisses his way across to the other and plays over it a moment before making a path down toward Viggo's cock.

That Orlando has experience is obvious, and far from being jealous, Viggo is glad. It makes it even easier to lie back, his fingers still loosely twined in Orlando's hair, and let Orlando explore to his heart's content. "Later," he murmurs, "I'll want to taste you."

"Later," Orlando agrees, carefully keeping himself up off of the mattress. "If you taste me now, it'll be over." Nevertheless, he licks his way from the base of Viggo's erection to the tip, drawing the foreskin back with his hand to lick at the head.

"If," Viggo groans, doing his best not to drag Orlando's head down over his cock. "If you keep doing that...it'll be over too."

Orlando can't resist, though, just once. He presses his mouth down, licking, feeling the heat and length as he sinks over it, and then he pulls off again, feeling the tension in Viggo's thighs.

"I'm not trying to tease," he promises, reaching up toward the nightstand automatically. There is lube there, though Orlando would never have thought to keep it by the bed (generally speaking, he does his tossing off in the shower). He smiles, drawing back to his knees, holding a bottle of silicone-based lubricant and drizzling it into his hand.

"What," Viggo begins as Orlando grabs the bottle. "Oh," he says, understanding what the bottle contains. "Is it oil?" He thinks about the various things he's used -- olive oil, hair pomade, Pond's cold cream and his usual stand-by, Vaseline.

"God, no," Orlando answers, eyes wide, and then he has to decide how to cover this particular issue without destroying the mood. "So much has changed," he says carefully. "Let's just say we don't use oil anymore; there are lots of other more efficient kinds. I'll explain it later." He bends to press a kiss to Viggo's belly as he circles gently around Viggo's opening without penetrating yet.

Any thought of discussion flies right out of Viggo's mind, and he spreads his legs wider and moans with a hunger that would have once embarrassed him. Right now, however, he just revels in the feeling of being touched so intimately.

"God, you're beautiful," Orlando tells him, and once again his words are totally different from the ones he'd use with any other lover. _Hot_ and _sexy_ can come later; they're straddling two times, two worlds, and it just makes more sense to meet Viggo in his as best he can.

Even in the midst of wanting nothing more than for Orlando to keep touching him -- and hopefully to fuck him soon -- Viggo can't help blinking. "I...you are," he manages to reply, reaching up to rest his hand against Orlando's cheek. "So beautiful."

Pressing his face to Viggo's chest, Orlando listens -- _heartbeat_ \-- and pushes in with one finger, giving deference a ghost wouldn't require, but needing even more to give deference to the man he wants now.

"It's better," Viggo gasps, a little astonished. And maybe it's that after all this time he forgot how good it feels to have someone touch him like this, or maybe it's that his lovers were never this sure of themselves or maybe it's the fact that this is a dream and he's a ghost, but really, he doesn't care. It feels utterly wonderful and that's more than enough for him.

"Good." Orlando goes through the prep almost tenderly, and by the time he's pressed the head of his cock against Viggo's hole he's all but whimpering with the need to come. "Okay?" he asks breathlessly.

"God yes," Viggo pants, as he stares up at Orlando. "Better...much better than okay...please Orlando?"

"Fuck," Orlando growls out, and he has one arm up to brace himself and the other down so that he can grip Viggo's hip as he pushes in. "Yes." And it feels incredible, as real as anything, and he can even feel the awkwardness of bone as he drops his head to Viggo's collarbone. Making eye contact right now would do him in.

Viggo would swear, if he could speak, that this was _more_ real than anything he's ever felt. It does hurt a little, the way it always does -- a hurt that he knows will fade soon enough -- but he brings his legs up, wrapping them around Orlando's hips. "Good...goddamn that's good."

Orlando groans as he sinks in, starting to thrust almost immediately. He hooks his hands under Viggo's shoulders, trying to keep hold of a kiss at the same time.

With his legs around Orlando's waist, there's nothing Viggo can do but lie there and feel every hard movement of Orlando's cock inside him. It's incredible, so fucking good that he's groaning loudly in no time at all. "More...oh God, Orlando...more!"

Digging his knees into the mattress, Orlando lunges in more sharply, gasping as Viggo hitches his thighs up and the angle changes just so. He wants more, too, but just this is going send him over soon.

Determined to last as long as Orlando does, Viggo grits his teeth and closes his eyes, only to open them once more because the need to see Orlando is too overwhelming. "So good," he moans. "So good..."

"Yes." Orlando reaches back to grip Viggo's thigh, dropping his head to nuzzle at his chest. This is more than he could have hoped for, more _real_ than anything he's ever had, just as hot and pleasurable, and it's that knowledge that sends him over: Viggo is here, and _his_, as solid as anything.

When Orlando comes, he has to lever himself up from Viggo's body again, arching tautly and crying out as it rips through him.

Viggo's so shattered by the experience when he comes that, while his mouth is open, he's utterly silent. After, he simply lies there and stares up at Orlando with a gratitude that he cannot put into words. He needs to make contact in some way, needs to reassure Orlando that he's happy, and so he reaches up and brushes a lock of Orlando's hair off his forehead, smiling as he does so.

Finally, Orlando can breathe enough to kiss Viggo again. He needs it, too. He needs all the closeness he can get, and he can't even imagine how Viggo must feel.

"Are you all right?" he asks quietly, pulling out gently and settling a little -- but not too far -- to one side, still holding Viggo close against him.

"I was only 44 when I died," Viggo says after a long moment spent catching his breath. "I've spent twice that many years without a lover's touch, but that's not what has me...feeling so amazed." He brushes Orlando's hair again, once more delighting in the silky feel of it. "It's that even when I was alive, it was never this good."

Moved, Orlando tucks his head toward Viggo's hand. "That's...thank you," he says simply, a little at a loss. "It feels the same for me, too. So different. As if the whole thing is new." It is, he realizes, lucid again, and he drops his head to Viggo's shoulder. "I'm sorry we can't spend our days together as well."

"We can," Viggo says. "We can still talk whenever you have the time, sit together, as long as you don't mind bundling up a little against the cold."

Orlando smiles at that, combing his fingers through Viggo's hair. "I don't mind." He closes his eyes, inhaling the warm scent of Viggo's skin. "I'm sorry I ever thought this couldn't be real."

"Please," Viggo murmured. "Don't apologize. For someone who fell in love with a ghost, you're doing amazingly well."

Nuzzling into Viggo's throat, Orlando sighs happily. "I am, at that. It's...just right." And in spite of the limitations -- unreal, almost fairy-tale ones -- he is happy like this.

_-end-_

**Author's Note:**

> Because we love us a nice cliche, we've decided to try our hands at a Viggo/Orlando ghost fic. The title is from the song "Ghost" by the Indigo Girls.


End file.
